


Needs and Wants

by Decibelle



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Fluff, It's self-indulgent fluff, M/M, Magical Realism, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-17 12:54:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11275695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Decibelle/pseuds/Decibelle
Summary: People had always said that Sidney Crosby had a gift. His talent on the ice seemed to them as some other-worldly gift. But no, hockey was not the magic that Sidney had been born with, though he often wished it had been something that simple.[This is a submission for the Sid Geno Exchange 2017]





	Needs and Wants

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shinetheway](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinetheway/gifts).



> This story was happily thrown together for shinetheway. Prompts included magical realism, hockey smarts, shameless pws (plot without sex), Russian language and fluff. I hope you like it.
> 
> Outrageous gratitude to my beta [unnamed until after author reveals] for whipping this into shape on short notice. I think it's turned out great in part to your guidance!
> 
> Hover text available over Russian for translation.

People always said that Sidney Crosby had a gift. His talent on the ice seemed other-worldly in a way that could only be explained by some supernatural element that he had been born with and not in fact just the hard work of a determined little boy with all the right tools at his disposal, thanks to the efforts and sacrifices of the family that loved him. People whispered the word 'magic' as if it were a bizarre but strong possibility. But no, hockey was not the magic that Sidney had been born with, though he often wished it had been something that simple.

 

In reality, Sidney dealt in needs. More specifically, he had an innate ability to tell what it was a person needed from _him_. As helpful as this sounded, it had never quite given him the advantage he hoped. Though he thrived in his endeavours, it was not the all access pass to a person's mind and the key to ruling his relationships that he might have expected. It was not always something he was aware of in words, but mostly a feeling, a pull in his gut telling him what he needed to do to help or please someone, whether he could deliver that thing or not.

 

It had always been like this.

 

He'd known as a boy when his parents had needed him to love hockey, to prove to them that the sacrifices they made for him without complaint were for something that would make Sidney happy and be the best path for his future, so he'd thrown all of his enthusiasm into showing them just how dedicated he was to his sport. He did love it and he was able to ease their fears.

 

When other parents, spectators, would boo at him from the stands and call out nasty things about him to the referee, when the tears would prick at his eyes and his gentle face would go disgustingly red, he would turn to his coach and feel that familiar tug of need being shot at him from across the ice.

 

_Man up, Crosby!_

 

So he would.

 

When his father needed him to work longer, to try harder, to _be_ better... He did.

 

As he grew, he got used to this sensation. He was the perfect son and brother, who never fought with his sister and always cleaned his room about an hour before he was going to get in trouble over it. It helped that his parents tended to phrase things to him in this way also, so it was often the way they felt.

 

"Sidney, sweetheart, I need you to pick up your sister after school," his mother would say. Or his father would bring him into the den after watching TV with the family to quietly tell him, "I need you to focus, son. You can do this. You can win."

 

It was the way his childhood had worked and so he'd flourished, leaning on his family and their ways as a crutch. Favouring one leg, you might say, had led him to weaken the other.

 

When he moved away and had to fend for himself, at Shattuck, at Rimouski, he found himself hopelessly and helplessly out of his depth. He was confused by being surrounded by people who didn't think in needs, or at least in needs that were gentle and lacked urgency. He was a kind boy, he felt, and he did make friends and was always polite, but he struggled to relate to these new people in the same way. He felt rather lost, free for the first time but set adrift. He soon learned a tactic that would get him through the majority of his career.

 

He kept his head down and got on with things.

 

Even as an adult, Captain of the Penguins, NHL star and the namesake of his own era, Sidney kept a reputation for being quiet and driven. He was awkward in conversation and he tended towards babbling whenever he caught onto a topic that he had a passion for or from catching the glimmer of a need from the person. When given the chance, he could talk with no end in sight, thrilled to be on even ground until the inevitable occurred. It always occurred.

 

They would need him to stop.

 

It usually went this way, eventually, and it always hit him like a jab to the stomach. He would cut off suddenly, embarrassed, then make a hasty exit, usually to the ice if he could. He knew he could be a bit much sometimes, annoying even. He had just assumed that everyone could be like that and he did his best to move on, to be as unobtrusive as he could manage.

 

He had discovered, over the years, that a need required two things to have an impact on him, yearning and expectation. He often felt the pull of need from someone who did not actually require the result in question (a goal, a kiss, less talking) in order to live, they just seemed to feel like they did. When Sully would say “I need you to rest up, be good to go for tomorrow,” Sidney never felt that familiar pull in his gut and his best guess as to why was that no one actually expected him to rest like he was told. Similar to the lack of expectation, if people expected him to do something for them, but didn’t feel a great desire for that outcome, he was left unbothered by their thoughts.

 

He was lucky that on a professional rink, he couldn't feel anything from anyone. He held no advantage on the ice over anyone else, regardless of what people might say, but it wasn't as if his little ability could have helped. What use would it be to be able to feel angry fans 'needing' him to drop dead at every away game? He could already hear them shout it. When he was on the ice, he felt free from it all. That feeling would end the minute he'd step foot into the locker room.

 

He adored his team and he was proud of every man in the room. He'd do almost anything for them and he often did, because they needed things too. Generally, he was able to tend to his team by making the odd pep talk at just the right moment, like when Flower stared at his shoes and wondered when he'd put on their jersey for the last time, or when Sheary had a quiet little meltdown into his stall over a fumbled play that really couldn't have mattered less in the long run. He was there for his team and he would even go out with them on occasion, when he felt it would help them. Everyone needed something from him these days and it was starting to wear him out as they got closer and closer to a threepeat.

 

He had one reprieve from this weariness (apart from the tempting option of escaping into the wilderness and cutting himself off from people entirely) and he had been making the most of it for a decade now.

 

He would stick close to Geno.

 

It had been years since he'd felt anything from Geno. He was the only member of the team who didn’t need anything from Sidney at all anymore. In fact, the last time he’d felt any kind of pull from Geno had been in their first year as teammates, when Geno had been going through so much, and even then it hadn’t been any great ask.

 

He remembered so clearly when they'd first met off the ice, in the foyer of Mario's house. Geno had been exhausted, dishevelled but completely exuberant. He'd beamed at Sidney and hurried forward to say to him, in garbled English, "Hello, Sid. Nice to meet." This had been followed by them smiling awkwardly at each other for a full minute before he'd felt the twist of need from Geno, in words he didn't understand but a sensation he knew clearly. He didn't know if the Russian words he'd felt more than heard were kinder, but Sidney had the distinct impression he was being asked to _say something, idiot_. It might have been more Sidney's thoughts than Geno's by that stage.

 

They'd gotten on well from the beginning. He had tried in vain to learn Russian after feeling Geno's irritated wish that Sidney just learn already so they could talk to each other. It hadn't gone well, but the effort had been so appreciated that he'd earned a giant hug and an affectionate friend for life in his newest teammate.

 

That had been the last time he'd felt something _from_ Geno, but Sidney knew he'd never stop feeling _for_ Geno.

 

It couldn't be helped, really. He didn't see how anyone could resist someone like Geno and he’d been helplessly in love with him pretty much from the beginning. He had faced up to that fact and done his level best to store it away like a piece of trivia. His name was Sidney Patrick Crosby, he liked his yellow Crocs no matter what anyone else said, and he would love Evgeni Malkin until the day he died.

 

There was no point in yearning. He had picked up on crushes before through his quirk. He had been in the situation once when a starry-eyed rookie had needed to see whether his lips were as good to kiss as he'd imagined, or a drunk girl at a bar had needed... well, it was never something gentle. He'd disregarded the feeling and left the person to their privacy on every occasion, but it was those encounters that let him know there was no point looking for signs of interest from Geno. He never needed anything from Sidney.

 

He wasn't heartbroken over it. He got on with things. He knew Geno loved him, in the same way he loved the rest of their team, or perhaps a little better. He was an amazing guy to be friends with and Sidney would always be grateful for that. For what he could get.

 

As much as he liked to be practical and claim to himself that his secret infatuation never clouded his judgement, there was just no denying sometimes that he was smitten. If another of his teammates were to take a hit that knocked them out of play, he would definitely talk to them in the locker room or phone them to show his support. He would not, most likely, spend the best part of an hour attempting to make them chicken soup as a 'joke' before failing and showing up at their house empty handed.

 

Geno looked irritated when he pulled open the door, one crutch shoved up under his arm and the other pointed at Sidney accusingly. He knew it made sense out of practicality not to fight with jeans when sporting a knee injury, but it still made Sidney a little red to see Geno standing there in his boxers.

 

"You make me get up. Next time, find key."

 

Sidney took a look around, as if a key would materialise now that he'd been chastised. He was still looking in earnest when Geno huffed and turned awkwardly back around to limp back down the hall.

 

"Need get peg leg like Bonino," he grumbled as he made his way heavily through to his den. Sidney followed quickly, taking care to lock the door behind him out of consideration before trying to catch up to Geno. He hovered helpless behind him as Geno didn't really need any extra help and he'd have just gotten in his way. He stood by the door as Geno collapsed heavily back into his lounge chair and rolled his head back to stare up at Sidney.

 

"Well, Sid? You not say anything. Not bring soup? Here to cluck like... Мама куриная. Chicken?"

 

Sid, for he was always only ‘Sid’ to Geno and nothing else, scrunched his brow up in confusion as he tried to figure out the failed metaphor.

 

"Oh! Mother hen? And hey! I just came to check in, it's not a big deal. It's not like I brought like, soup or something." He flushed, thinking of the mess in his kitchen he'd have to clean up later, and somehow this earned a laugh from Geno, who flung his arm out to gesture at the couch.

 

"Next time you bring soup and I be nicer to Mama Sid. Sit."

 

Sid sat and placed his hands on his knees as he watch Geno play with the TV remote, muting whatever he'd been watching that Sid had no chance of understanding anyway. One of the best things about spending time with Geno, rather than the other players, was that he was never Sidney Crosby when he was next to Geno. He was and had always been only ‘Sid’ and something about the way Geno said his name made him feel like all expectations had melted away. Sid _who_?

 

"You know they all call you Dad anyway," he muttered, thinking Geno distracted, but he got himself another laugh, larger this time, for his trouble.

 

"Yes. Be good wife. Bring me food when broken." Even though he'd made the joke himself, Geno's eyes darkened and he shut his mouth with a click as he cast his gaze back down to the wrap around his knee. It had been a bad hit, but it might not have been an issue for any player who hadn't already had knee surgery. Geno had always been very emotional about his sport. He celebrated louder than anyone else and sulked the hardest with the losses. Sid had seen firsthand for years the way Geno took every loss as a personal failing, but he'd always made it clear he wanted his space, usually by slamming doors on people. When he'd had the surgery and Sid had still been fighting his worst concussion, Geno had planted himself on Sid's couch and had been a fixture in the house for weeks. It had been nice, but even then he hadn't required anything from Sid.

 

Sid felt the need hit him square in the chest and he fell back into the sofa, hands squeezing hard on his knees.

 

Geno needed him. It wasn't much really, but it had been so long and the feeling that had grasped onto Sid was so small and pleading that it all but broke his heart. He made himself reach out, wanting to give Geno what he needed, everything he needed. It wasn't much, but he tried to put so much into the grip as he curled his fingers around Geno's wrist. His voice was needlessly thick as he offered the words that had rattled around in his heart and head, in English for once, in his own voice.

 

"Geno, it's going to be okay. Come on. You're going to come back from this. You're the best guy on this team, no matter what anybody might say." Yeah, he was Sidney Crosby, but this was _Geno_. He'd marched them through the playoffs by strength of will the year before, even if Sid had gotten the credit for it.

 

Geno slumped in his chair, strength seeming to leak out of him as he turned his head and shoulders more towards Sid. His arm was limp under Sid and for the first time in over a decade, he could feel the _need_ rolling off Geno in waves. _ держи меня. Hold me. _

 

Sid, hesitation gone, launched himself from the couch and landed on the arm of Geno's chair, almost sitting on his hand in his hurry. He wasn't the best at physical comfort, though he prided himself on presenting an air of competency in everything he did, so he was awkward as he wrapped his arms around Geno's shoulders and guided Geno's head to his chest, sitting too high to really be a shoulder to lean on. Geno went easily, as pliable as anything, and sunk into the embrace.

 

They didn't do this. This was not even slightly their style and Sid wondered what Geno was struggling with so much that he would go to him for this comfort.

 

Slowly, Geno shifted below him and came to settle his arms around Sid, low on his waist so he barely had to hold on at all. On a whim, Sid carded his hand through Geno's hair, finding it softer than he might have expected, had he ever let himself think about it.

 

"Sid, you say just right thing. Did not think I'm so... see through."

 

Sid chanced a look downwards and was surprised to see the painful fondness in Geno's sleepy eyes. He awkwardly patted Geno’s hair, now feeling wrong-footed for having delivered what Geno required with such enthusiasm, but knowing he might never get the chance again.

 

"Well, um, it's true and you-- it seemed like you needed to hear it so... You don't normally need anything from me so I guess I'm just, happy to help?"

 

It ended like a question and he felt flushed. He felt under scrutiny but Geno did not seem suspicious. In fact, he made a noise of distress and the arms around Sid's waist suddenly tightened, fingers digging into his hip underneath the hem of his T-shirt. His fingers were hot against Sid's skin.

 

"I'm always need you, Sid!" Geno's distress unfurled something in Sid's chest, a little part of his heart that had been hidden away for some time. The hope was overwhelming and he had to swallow it down as quickly as it had arrived. He gave the crown of Geno's head another awkward pat.

 

"No, you don't. I mean, not really. And that's fine! You've got your friends on the team and you're independent. It's good you don't need much from your captain. Not that I'm not your friend too. I just mean... you know, you never need anything from me usually. Since you learned a tiny bit of English."

 

The last part was meant to be a chirp and he laughed awkwardly through the smile he'd plastered on his face. He knew it was true. Geno shouldn't need to depend on his captain, not Evgeni Malkin. If it weren't for Sid he'd have had the C years ago. No matter what it meant personally to Sid, it was a good thing Geno didn't need him. Sid just didn’t see how, in this case, not being needed could be a good thing for him too.

 

Geno tugged suddenly on Sid's torso and sent him flailing down onto his lap. His reflexes were good enough to keep from landing on Geno's bad knee, but he froze once he realised exactly where he was now sitting. Maybe if he'd brought soup he'd have never have wound up sitting in Geno's goddamn lap.

 

"Don't need you bring me things, Sid," Geno murmured into his shoulder now that it was within reach, as if he could hear Sid's panicked thoughts. He huffed a sigh and stared up at Sid once more. "Don't need from you but stupid reason to be sad. Don't need, but always want." He gave Sid a squeeze with his wonderfully strong arms and Sid remained frozen, staring down at Geno with far too much desire and horror mixed together to have any kind of attractive expression. How could Geno be staring up at him so tenderly? Had one of them hit their heads?

 

"Geno," he began carefully, voice as neutral as he could make it. "What do you mean?" His voice jumped a little at the end, revealing some of the hysteria he was doing his best to bottle up and throw into the ocean in his head.

 

Geno made another noise, this time of some amused frustration and he let go of Sid enough to gesture at them both, at their ridiculous situation of two hockey players attempting to fit in the one lounge chair, Sid's hand tangled up in Geno's hair while being aggressively cuddled.

 

Oh.

 

"Don't need you be anything. Just be Sid. I'm always be happy with that. Мой любимый дурак."

 

Sidney blushed, as he was wont to do whenever Geno grinned at him like he'd done something particularly funny. "You know I can't understand you when you speak Russian," he murmured, still blushing but starting to feel a joy overcome him that he hadn't felt in a long time.

 

"Yes but you try. I'm coming with no English, want talk to you and then one day you say, Привет, как дела? Very bad accent. Worst Russian. That when I'm know. Always want, Sid."

 

“And…” Sid began, clearing his throat awkwardly. “And what is it that you want? From me.” He didn’t think it was a character failing that he wanted something so important spelled out for him but Geno nudged him again.

 

They were on a knife edge here. Though it  _seemed_ obvious what if he had read everything wrong? He wasn’t in a position to be able to give Geno much in the way of space if he ruined this, except for the obvious move of getting off his lap. Dear God.

 

“ _Sid_.” At the call of his name Sid made himself look back at Geno’s face, expecting that it was one of those moments where Geno had so much to say that he didn’t have the words for. He’d read his translated interviews, he’d studied the man for years, he knew he was a smart man for all people judged him for his English proficiency.

 

Sid was right, in a way. Geno didn’t have the words and he made the little frustrated sound in his throat that often preceded trying to explain something complicated with a limited vocabulary.

 

Sid was about to offer to get out his phone for Google Translate so they could work it out between them, but thank goodness he wasn’t quick on the draw because Geno found a way to express himself just fine. He pushed up with one hand on the arm of his chair and planted a kiss right on Sid’s open mouth.

 

It took him a second to get himself in gear, and by that point Geno was done, pulling back to study Sid, who should have been more confused but instead wound up smiling goofily down at him. Unable to be patient he closed the distance again, kissing Geno with as much of his own need and love as he could show. He understood now, that had Geno had Sid’s gift, he would have also felt nothing, as even though Sid wanted Geno so much and for so long, there had never been any expectation of _this_.

 

As they gently broke apart, Sid gasped out a small laugh of true joy as he took in the sated, loving look in Geno’s eyes, all for him.

 

Geno’s thumb came up to rest on Sid’s lower lip and soon Sid’s smile was being returned. He shook off the hand on his jaw and leaned down to touch their foreheads together, stealing a gentle peck or two. He was unable to help himself, not now that he had what he’d always wanted.

 

“What do you need, Geno?”

 

Geno closed his eyes and Sid felt the answer, loud and clear. _ Что-нибудь. Все._  _All of you_.

 

Sid had never been happier to be needed.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Comments are love. Come say hi to me on [tumblr](https://that-thing-you-roo.tumblr.com/)!


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